


Initialization

by prairiecrow



Series: Alignment (The Mob AU) [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Assassins & Hitmen, Human Jarvis (Iron Man movies), M/M, Tony Being Tony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark is sure of one thing: that Stewart Lucien Jarvis, factotum and assassin trained by the Academie de la Mort Beatifique, came here ready to kill him... but so far he's still alive. Can he talk his way out of this one -- or use his many other talents to convince Jarvis that there are more mutually advantageous ways this scenario can be resolved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rupert Friend is Jarvis. That is all.
> 
> https://kinoimages.files.wordpress.com/2014/09/rupert-friend-by-sc3b8lve-sundsbc3b8-4.jpg

The first thing Tony noticed, to be perfectly honest? Those cheekbones: sharp, strong, as elegant as the contours of an African tribal mask or a Glock 17 Gen4. The second thing was the eyes: deep-set and shadowed in the glare of the light above the backstage door of Here Kitty Kitty, but clearly a cold shade of slate grey. The third thing was the hair (short, black as a raven's wing, and slicked into artful spikes) and the fourth thing was the mouth (a harsh line with narrow lips a surprisingly lush shade of rose). Oddly enough, the Glock 22 the man carried only came in at #6, a good lag after the way his black ensemble — business suit, camelhair coat, thin tie and neat slim-fit shoes gleaming in the crisp snowy night — fit his slender body like a perfectly tailored dream.

But the expression in those cold eyes, on that sculpted face… was pure murder, as clear a message as the barrel of the gun pointed directly at Tony's chest. It was all of a piece: there was no anxiety, no hesitation, not a trace of doubt. Tony likewise had no doubt that he was less than a half-second away from getting a bullet through the heart —

— but his mouth, often just a shade quicker than his already lightning-fast brain, came riding in like the calvary. "You must be Stewart Jarvis."

No flicker of emotion marred that icy mask — but the guy didn't pull the trigger, either. Ergo, he must be surprised… or at least curious concerning how this man, the man who was responsible for the death of his previous employer, had any idea what his name actually was… and hey, in a situation like this Tony was ready to work with any hint of an advantage he could claw free.

"Stewart Lucien Jarvis," he continued, meeting the taller man's level gaze without blinking, "factotum and sometime assassin to Gerard Lepuis, the biggest crime boss — pardon me, the _former_ biggest crime boss — in all of Merry Olde England." The hitman didn't blink. Then again, neither did he fire. "Quite the posh gentleman, Mr. Lepuis — French ancestry notwithstanding… and not the kind of guy who'd have any qualms about outright buying a little help from the Academie de la Mort Beatifique, am I right?"

That was an outright gamble — the mere mention of the Academie was guaranteed to do one of two things: either prompt Jarvis to kill anybody who knew about it or pique his curiosity… and for about a second and a half Tony got to ride the white-hot razor edge of agonizing uncertainty. But then Jarvis gestured very slightly with the gun's barrel — _Go on_ — and the surge of Tony's relief was so intense that it was practically orgasmic.

"So, Mr. Jarvis," he continued, still meeting Jarvis's eyes across the ten or so snowy feet that separated them, "who sent you all the way across the Atlantic to pay l'il old me a visit?"

"'Jarvis' will suffice," the assassin stated in a low measured voice, and — okay, wow, seriously, that was _hot_. The guy had the kind of voice that angels only dream of, the kind of voice that pulls everything else together and turns an interpersonal situation from "I've-just-gotta-convince-him-not-to-kill-me" into something closer to "I've-just-gotta-get-him-between-the-sheets". Which was outright crazy, because graduates of the Academie were definitely not the kind of people you cuddled up to on a cold winter night like this one…

Still, Tony's instincts were never wrong. He was still alive because he could read people like they were grade school primers, and every sense he possessed was screaming: _He's alone. He's Academie, they're trained like Dobermans from infancy to be totally loyal to their assigned master… and I just had this one's master killed. Maybe he came here to return the favour, or maybe —_

_— just maybe — he's looking for a replacement._

Which was even crazier. Or maybe not — given how little was known about the Academie. Were its agents allowed to choose their allegiances? This agent — Jarvis — hadn't shot Tony yet. Did he feel it too, this magnetism that was thrilling through Tony's flesh alongside the adrenaline tang of fear?

Was he just as curious, in his own cold-blooded way?

There was only one way to find out. Carefully, making so sudden moves, Tony gestured over his shoulder toward his limousine, which was parked on the street at the end of the alley. "Well, 'Jarvis', I don't know about you but I'm freezing my ass off out here. How about we take a ride and you can tell me all about it?"

For an instant, something — something bright — glittered in those shadowy eyes, like moonlight on frost. For an instant Tony was certain that he was about to feel the Godzilla punch of a bullet ripping into his torso, slamming the life right out of him —

— but then Jarvis was retracting his gun-arm and slipping the weapon back inside the breast of his suit, into the slim-fit holster no doubt custom tailored just for him.

"Lead on, Mr. Stark," he said in that velvet melodic voice, and as Tony turned away toward the limo he was well aware that he wasn't in any less danger now that the gun was out of play. A man like Stewart Jarvis knew about thirty ways to kill another human being using only his bare hands, and probably at least ten ways to commit murder with both his hands tied behind his back.

All Tony might be doing was trading a death in this icy alleyway for a slightly more comfortable demise inside his limo…

… but well. Instincts. And while the weight of Jarvis's gaze on the small of Tony's back was palpable, he had to admit that its intense focus was far from unpleasant.

[TO BE CONTINUED]


	2. Chapter 2

For an instant, as Tony opened the passenger side rear door of the limo and slid into his customary seat at the back, he considered simply locking all the doors while Stewart Jarvis was crossing behind the vehicle to enter from the other side — and then keying on the intercom and yelling at his driver, Happy Hogan, to shift gears to reverse and stomp on the gas. Which might have worked, if Jarvis had actually gone round the back. Instead the Academie agent crowded up right behind Tony, giving him no chance to pull the door shut, and slid inside without the slightest pause — so quickly that had Tony not hauled ass across the seat, he would have wound up with Jarvis squarely in his lap. As it was he ended up shoulder to shoulder with the assassin, who calmly pulled the door shut behind him and, with a practiced flick of his forefinger, keyed the master locks closed…

… which left Tony practically cheek to cheek with the guy who was planning to murder him unless he could do some mighty fast talking. His mind was still racing round that possibility when the intercom clicked, followed by Happy's laconic voice: _"Where to, boss?"_

Not a word about the stranger who'd just climbed into Tony's limo: Happy was too used to Tony's idiosyncratic habits to ask questions. For an instant Tony considered using their pre-established code phrase for an abduction — "Straight on 'til morning!" — but he was pretty sure that Jarvis would spot the ruse and break his neck before he had time to draw one last breath. So instead he said, "Take us round the waterfront" — a standard route when he had business to discuss with an associate he didn't want to take back to the Tower.

The intercom clicked again, and the limo started moving. Which left Tony with no excuse not to look to his right…

… where he found that Jarvis had neatly crossed his legs, right over left, and folded his black-gloved hands atop his right knee. He had also turned his head to gaze at Tony with unblinking attentiveness. The lighting in here was more diffused, dusky, and Tony could see now the heavy dark eyebrows which had been clearly evident in previous photos he'd seen of the slim unremarkable assistant who accompanied Lepuis everywhere… but those images had lacked the charisma of the original. It was an quiet attractiveness, elegant and understated — but every second of exposure multiplied its effect exponentially.

"I've come to kill you, you know," Jarvis said softly, which effectively derailed Tony's appreciation of his personal magnetism.

"Yeah?" He forced one corner of his mouth to twitch into a smile, fairly sure it turned out as more of a grimace. "Well… I can't help but notice that you haven't yet."

Those cold grey eyes scanned him up and down, as if taking his measure to the last millimetre. "It's what expected of me," Jarvis explained. "I hope you understand that there's nothing personal in this."

 _There will be if I can help it,_ Tony thought grimly. "So — what, you need to ask my forgiveness before you whack me? Is that some weird Academie thing?"

"On the contrary," Jarvis contradicted, with the tiniest upward quirk of one eyebrow. "Protocol dictates that I execute you from a safe distance, then depart the scene without being detected by either my target or those guarding said target."

A cold trickle raced up Tony's spine and made him break out in a cold sweat all over. _Oh fuck —_ "So you plan to kill my driver too."

"As I said — it's nothing personal." And he did sound apologetic, in a cool detached kind of way.

"Then why deviate from the approved script? Two murders are a lot more trouble than one — twice the chance of leaving forensic clues, for one thing. Even I know that, and I haven't executed anybody personally since… well, since ever."

Jarvis nodded. Was that a hint of approval in the inclination of his delicate chin? "Yes — you've always been successful at convincing others to do your dirty work for you."

Tony shrugged and tried to look modest. He was pretty sure he failed at that, too. "It helps when you inherit a criminal empire from your dear old man."

"Of course," Jarvis agreed politely. "Everything is already in place. Still — an incompetent manager can easily run even the best organization into the ground in short order. You, on the contrary, have grown your father's original holdings and taken them from strength to strength."

This time the upward twitch of Tony's mouth had some genuine pleasure to it. "Kind of you to notice."

"You will find, Mr. Stark — if our association survives the next five or so minutes, that is — that I cultivate the habit of speaking nothing but the truth."

Another wash of ice chased across Tony's nerve endings, this one riding a surge of adrenaline. "So you're not here to kill me — necessarily."

"That depends entirely upon you." He glanced down at his own hands and lifted the right to extend his slender leather-clad fingers, as if inspecting the perfect fit of his ebony gloves. "With Mr. Lepuis now deceased, I find myself… in a rather untenable position. Tell me, have you ever considered employing the services of the Academie?"

Tony permitted himself a bark of laughter. "Are you kidding? They're a nest of cobras — no offence," he clarified hastily. "But if anybody would know that a client needs to sell his soul to hire one of their agents —"

"I quite agree," Jarvis interrupted smoothly. "The fees required are… far from merely monetary."

"But if it means you're less inclined to put a bullet in my brain," Tony continued, "let's just say that I'm open to negotiations."

Jarvis turned his right hand palm upward, folding his fingers inward as if now studying his manicure. For a span of almost three seconds he said nothing — three seconds of freefall for Tony, who had just been beginning to hope that maybe he'd get out of this car alive and was now seriously doubting it all over again.

"It is my duty to terminate you," the assassin said quietly. "My final duty to Mr. Lepuis, who bought and paid for me in full. If I do not kill you, I will myself become a target for my fellow agents."

Another pause. Tony realized he was holding his breath, but realized with equal clarity that he was powerless to exhale. He studied that pale sculpted profile beneath its artful tousle of short raven hair, until those grey eyes flicked upward again to meet his —

— and there was a depth of icy hatred that struck a shaft of cold fear all the way down to his balls, coupled with a misery that was utterly devoid of self-pity but still made his heart clench in his chest.

Jarvis's voice held no trace of those emotions: "Mr. Lepuis, however, was a man not particularly solicitous toward his possessions. In fact, he was — for lack of more flattering terms — both relentlessly dishonourable and inventively cruel. And for those reasons, among others, I am inclined to disregard the debt of gratitude which tradition dictates I should owe him. Do you understand, Mr. Stark? If not, admit as much, and I will put an end to this conversation immediately."

[TO BE CONTINUED]


End file.
